Before Varia
by The Night Owl is Addicted
Summary: B.V. It was a time when Fran was devoid of amphibian-inspired head accessories. The same could not be said regarding pineapples.
1. 9 BV

Title: B.V. (Before Varia)

Notes: This is a gen-fic centered around Fran's life before joining Varia (and a bit of it after his 'recruitment'). Any slashy implications between Fran and Mukuro are _totally_ not intended. D: Mukuro just made it that way. Also, in case anyone is curious, my canon here is that there is a four-year age gap between them.

Disclaimer: Respective characters from Katekyo Hitman Reborn belong to Amano Akira.

xXx

Nine Years Before Varia

xXx

"Oh goodness, is this darling little Fran? Don't you just look adorable in your tiny suit! So handsome, yes! Come, come—give your dear Carmella a little 'ol kiss!"

"That would make your husband extremely jealous, Mrs. Vivado," Fran, aged seven, replied with a completely straight face, voice small and toneless. "I'd rather not start a feud between our families."

Mrs. Vivado gave a laugh, high and shrilly like the rest of her friends. "How wonderfully thoughtful of you," she said. And then to her friends, "Wasn't that just darling of him? And so smart, too!"

"Very much so! I heard little Fran here is quite the little genius, yes he is~"

"Do you know? He's in the same class as my Alexio, my twelve-year-old. And I keep telling that boy to study better so that he'll be like little Fran, but he's so focused on playing with those guys of his. Just like his father," Mrs. Vivado sighed dramatically. Then she ignored Fran's good-natured warning from earlier and proceeded to give him a lipstick-marked kiss on the cheek. "But you, you're so adorable, little Fran! And shhh, we'll just have to keep our little exchange a secret now, all right, little Fran?"

She winked, giddy, and finally left him alone.

He didn't wait for her to be out of his vision; Fran, lips forming a frown, quickly wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his black coat. He felt a slight pang of irritation directed at the man tightly grasping his thin wrist—even though the man, his caretaker, had clearly seen the disgusting mark, he didn't bother handing him a wet tissue or a handkerchief. He was more preoccupied in dragging and presenting his charge, as ordered by Fran's parents, to another group of old ladies that were equally loud and disgusting as they cooed at Fran and Fran's height.

Fran deepened his frown.

Staying in a corner would have been a more preferable position. There he'd be free to observe and mentally comment on how Mrs. Vivado's dress made her look like a big old snake, scales and all, and how Don Medici looked particularly lecherous (not to mention pedophilic) talking to the Tolentino's daughter in practically zero proximity with his smile broad and his eyes fixed on her barely-there chest. Alas, the caretaker had a vice-like grip on him.

Fran didn't fully understand why he was needed here, why he had to be towed so forcefully around. Weren't smelly, rambunctious brats discouraged from attending adults' events? Not that Fran fit into the categories aside from that of a brat's (the appropriateness of the term was also objectionable), but that wasn't the point. Kids didn't like boring parties and adults didn't like having kids to take care of when they had their fun. It was a fact.

If the event was hosted by his parents, he'd have understood but that wasn't the case for this party, this New Year's gathering. However, the guests were supposedly prominent people—though Fran knew who they really were and what they really did behind the facades of proud parents, aunts, uncles, godparents, grandparents, businessmen, government officials, and the like; they were Mafia, the fancy dressed, heavy-cologne-smelling people with wary eyes and manipulating smiles—and Fran needed to keep up appearances with the rest of them, his Mother told him. She didn't bother telling him why.

Earlier, when Fran implied his opposition regarding the topic of attendance with a tiny "I don't feel well enough to go, Father," his Father's cold, clipped reply of "The complete attendance of my Family is imperative, Fran," gave the young boy recollections of whimpers of protest and his Father's cane and his back. Fran had then slipped into his stifling black Armani suit without another word.

He didn't need to know why after all.

xXx

Fran got his chance to escape the caretaker's iron grasp when one fat lady decided she wanted to carry _adorable_ _little Fran_. She lifted him as easy as though she was hefting a pillow and was particularly delighted when Fran made no fuss inside her arms. When she returned him to the ground after a gracious amount of cheek-pinching and kissing, he slipped past behind her and into the crowd, easing his way through completely unnoticed by his guardian.

Twenty-six minutes into hiding, Fran heard a "Kufufufu" echo under the grand staircase (i.e. his temporary secret base).

He looked around, squinting to see further into the shadows. Green eyes grew wide. There, seated a couple of feet away from him was a smiling blue-haired boy—and what an interesting haircut he had, Fran thought, sarcasm included—lounging as though he were on a plush sofa in the mansion's lavish drawing room instead of on the cold marble tiles underneath the dusty stairs.

"I don't mind sharing, but if you're going to make noises like that then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," whispered Fran as he curled his legs closer to his chest. If someone heard, he'll still be unnoticeable if made himself small enough. He had had enough of 'keeping up appearances'.

The other boy's smile grew wider. "I was here before you."

"No, you weren't. I checked." Fran decided that the boy's head looked like a pineapple.

"You did." Pineapple boy nodded, eyes twinkling. Fran saw them and wondered why they weren't the same colors. The red on his right eye looked pretty, though. "You didn't notice me, is all."

"Impossible," said Fran as he resisted the urge to pout. He outgrew pouting at age four, throwing tantrums at age five, thinking it would stop the hitting he got in retaliation for his any of his actions.

"I've been watching you."

"Are you a stalker?"

The hitting didn't stop. Fran had a vague idea that it never would and he learned to hold his cries of pain before he turned six.

"Hard not to notice you, don't you think? You're as inconspicuous as I am in terms of appearance, after all, _Little One_."

"You've been around Mrs. Vivado and her friends too much, it seems."

At six, he never noticed it anymore, the pain. All he had to do was use his mind, his will—_it does not hurt, it does not hurt_—to ignore the dull sensation as hand or rod made contact with his head, his back, his arms, his butt, his skin.

"Not at all. They were too scared to approach me."

"That's pretty cool."

Fran's mind was above standard; he had a high level of intellect. It came from reading, his tutor told his Mother once, and she merely nodded, simply voiced a 'hm' as she was more preoccupied with her nails. Fran didn't let it bother him and simply returned to his books (what his tutor didn't know was that he often read books on torture, on deception, on magic, instead of the classics he liked to recommend. Ah, but his _real_ favorites were comic books and hero stories, which he read not for the cool protagonists, but for the villains who always seemed to have the greatest ideas). And he told himself the same things over and over again as he read passage after passage, manuscript after manuscript: a s_tronger mind, a stronger will, and a Fran that was less weak, less susceptible to pain._

Ignoring the pain was only a temporary relief, he knew that of course. He understood that fact better than any child his age or older, but temporary was better than anything, better than feeling the full brunt of the punishment.

"You might be able to do it, too."

"I can?"

Soon, ignoring the pain became insufficient. He had then taken to imagining ways to stop the hitting, to stop the pain (still imaginary, still fake, but he would tell himself it's still much, much better than not doing anything). He devised clever methods. Artistic deliveries. Cruel executions. Cold, cold, clean, precise deadly strategies—it made him shiver with excitement every time he concocted a new devious plan.

"Want me to teach you how?"

And the only thing he wanted more than anything was to bring his imaginations (his temporary, his fake solutions) to life.

Pineapple boy's offer rang in his ears, a melodious sound.

His mouth was straight, his voice monotonous and sounded like he could care less, but his dull green eyes betrayed Fran's excitement to the glimmering red eye.

"Yes."

xXx

A few months later, a party was hosted at their house, and as such attendance cannot be avoided. Not that Fran had bothered complaining anymore—his Father's hold on his cane was warning enough, reminding him of the grave offense he did when he fled from his caretaker and the consequent punishment dealt for his act.

So there he was, right in front of the same caretaker with the tight grip on his wrist, welcoming all the Families along with his parents and siblings at the entrance.

That was when he saw pineapple boy again, with the same weird pineapple head, the same mismatched eye-colors, the same wide grin. The back of Fran's palm itched. It wasn't like the itching he had from the bruises before. He wondered if it had anything to do with the other boy accidentally (or maybe it was purposely) scratching him at that particular spot before they parted last time. Maybe he had passed him some disease, but Fran's hair was still normally styled and his eye-color still matched each other and he didn't feel the urge to smile at something that wasn't even funny, so he figured it was just a coincidence and ignored the tingling sensation.

"Kufufu, a pleasure to see you again, Little One."

"I wish I could say the same."

"Is he a friend of yours?" his mother said, eyes cautiously inspecting pineapple boy. Did she know what he could do? Was she scared of him, too? Fran suppressed the shiver he didn't quite have from the thought.

"No," he said the same time as pineapple boy did.

His Mother blinked. "…Is that so... Well. Please enjoy the party."

"I will."

Fran had his second lesson once he, ignoring all possible penalties he might invoke, managed to escape his caretaker and the long, painted fingernails and rouged lips of the guests he had to greet. He almost broke into a smile when he found it so much easier to do now that he had been taught the basics of the ways of the ninja—his Master said something about the art of illusions, its core ideas, and how to use it on the weak minded, but Fran preferred to think of it as Ninja Lesson Number One since it obviously sounded way cooler.

"Kufufu."

For some reason pineapple boy beat him to his hiding place again, though this time Fran was able to spot him from his concealed position under the shadows of the shelves in the second wine cellar (and pineapple boy gave an almost condescending laugh when Fran mentioned it, though Fran saw nothing funny with it, as usual).

"Shall we begin, Little One?"

"Whenever you feel like it, Mukuro-san."

"No, no, no." Pineapple boy tsk'ed. "What did I tell you to call me?"

"Whenever you feel like it, _Master."_

xXx

After the party, he never saw pineapple boy in person again. The lessons continued though, and Fran never had sweet dreams ever since.

…Not that he ever did.


	2. 7 BV

xXx

Seven Years Before Varia

xXx

Fran first heard of the Varia when he was nine, reading a novel outside his house in the flower garden's pristine white gazebo.

A gust of air turned the page he was currently on. He looked up and saw streaks of black whizzing past, accompanied by patches of white, yellow, red, green, and more black. He had blinked once and the colors were gone.

He rubbed his eyes, convinced it was a trick of the light bouncing off from the fountain not far away and the fact that it had been the fifth book he was reading (not including the compilations of Tex Willer and The Phantom strips for breakfast) before the grandfather clock in the living room even chimed two. It could have been pineapple boy with his latest lesson but nothing involving lotus vines or snakes or ice pillars happened so that option was easily crossed off the list.

Less than thirty minutes later and Fran was on his sixth book for the day. Another blast of air blew by, again turning the pages, much to his annoyance. But he didn't bother looking up this time, simply flicked the pages back to page 666 and trained his eyes to paragraph two sentence six when a curious laugh (which luckily did not resemble a familiar 'Kufufu') reached his ears.

He stared at the sky, saw nothing, and decided he'd just read again later.

The next day, men in black coats, dark shades, and slicked-back hair visited his Father. Curious, Fran stayed silent just outside the slightly open double doors and overheard something he did not really understand.

Who was the Varia and why did they assassinate the Piazoso's from next door?

Jeremy Piazoso was a classmate in school, was in the same group once or twice for Chemistry class.

He and his parents—their whole household, actually—were found with throats slit, bones broken, bodies ridden with bullets, and red all over this morning, reported the man in pin-stripes. The mustachioed guy then said they've been dead since yesterday afternoon, and they have a suspicion that they were killed by the Varia.

This 'Varia' had to be good, Fran thought, because Jeremy liked to brag that their house had the tightest security in the city; a cockroach wouldn't be able to pass without them knowing and dealing with it.

And yet, Jeremy was dead now.

Fran shrugged; hand back on his book, fingering a bookmarked page as he padded away from the room. He didn't like him anyway—Jeremy made fun of his hair and his eyes and kept using Fran for 'baby' jokes just because he was five years younger than the rest of the class. If the Varia hadn't killed Jeremy, Fran would have done something to him sooner or later, if Fran was ever inclined to do so; and he was—will be—would be… should be. He wasn't all plan, no action—definitely not—his Master didn't teach him for nothing.

Fran decided to practice more of his illusions on the maids; just to be sure he hadn't lost his touch.


	3. 5 BV

xXx

Five Years Before Varia

xXx

"Why did you take me on as your apprentice?" asked Fran one hazy night when his Master took over another one of his dreams for a lesson-slash-illusion-battle.

A stick poked through Fran's thin frame, inserting from his back and piercing cleanly through his abdomen. It was quickly followed by three more, _stab stab stab_. Fran stared at the bloodless protrusions with disinterest and yanked them out without so much as a wince (it was a dream after all, you never felt anything in dreams. Then again, his Master often liked to prove him wrong especially when he was being careless, Fran found out after the frequent mornings that he woke up to a bloody mattress with various incisions done to his body).

In his palms, the sticks—javelins?—turned to a multitude of knives that he unceremoniously threw to his left, aiming at the snake with mismatched eyes hanging from a tree branch.

The knives turned to ashes two meters away from its target courtesy of fire pillars erupting from the ground. The snake laughed as it took on a more familiar (and in Fran's opinion, less welcome) form.

"I had a dream," Mukuro suddenly began, tone wistful as he made himself comfortable on the branch, and Fran wondered if his Master was in a good mood to have humored his query after just one try. "An angel came to me as I was asleep. I woke up with a start so he told me, 'Do not be afraid, I come with good news. The Holy Spirit will descend upon you and you will bear the child of God. He will save this world—'"

"You're not the Virgin Mary, Master," Fran interrupted, "Wrong story."

"Hm, yes." Mukuro tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You're not the Jesus-type either."

"You're not even a virgin."

"Yes, I am."

"Liars go to hell."

Mukuro smiled at him magnanimously. "Yes, yes, they do, Little One."

Fran shook his head, reminiscent of a parent scolding his child. He tried asking again. "Why did you teach me how to make illusions?"

Mukuro raised an eyebrow. "Why must you know the reason?"

Fran shrugged. "Because you must have one."

"And what if I simply feed you with another lie?"

"Will you risk the trip to hell?" Fran asked although he already knew what his Master's answer would be.

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind another visit from me." Mukuro flashed him another grin.

Fran tried another approach. "Will you lie to your cute apprentice?"

The question would have had more weight, Fran figured, if he hadn't spoken in monotone as he was inclined to do, and had tried the puppy-eyed look Mukuro sometimes used on him (not that it ever worked on Fran, and so he doubted it would the other way around).

Mukuro shrugged, copying Fran's nonchalance from before. "If I had one, maybe I wouldn't lie when asked."

"I'm hurt, Mas—"

Fran's retort was cut short when he found himself bursting into millions of bubbles and rematerializing next to Mukuro's spot on the tree. Fran tasted copper inside his mouth right after the last particle returned to its proper place. "Ouch. I think I bit my tongue, Master."

"The party was droll," Mukuro ignored him and started once again with another story, waving a hand absent-mindedly. The forest ground that they were previously in morphed into a grand hall, a room bustling with activity. Their tree remained as it was, situated next to a nude statue of a woman.

It was the event where they first met four years ago, Fran realized, and he could see his younger self being towed away by his caretaker from one group of old ladies to another. He stared at the other guests with as much distaste as blank eyes could have, exactly like his younger version.

Soon, the tiny Fran escaped and the scenery around the tree moved along with him, a bit like watching a 3-D movie, the screen situated in all four corners of the mini-theatre, the only viewers those who were on the plant. It followed the tiny form, stopping when the young child spotted the grand staircase and made the dusty area under it his temporary refuge.

"So terribly droll. And you," Mukuro broke the silence the same time a 'Kufufu' alerted the tiny Fran of another being's presence inside his hide-out. "A pitiful child with dead eyes and a half-dead soul dropped right into my palms."

"Ah. So you were bored."

"I offered my assistance, and the impressionable child you were had completely fallen for my charms," Mukuro laughed as he continued to disregard Fran's comments. "You succumbed so easily to my seduction, didn't you, Little One?"

Instead of arguing his Master's choice of words (for there was a semblance of truth in his Master's declaration, not that Fran would willingly tell him so), he asked, "If you were so bored, why didn't you just kill everyone in the party?" Because Fran knew his Master could have done so then, even when he was only ten. It was later in that year after all, that Mukuro had eradicated his new Family, the one that took him in after another incident Fran had yet to know of.

"It was not their time, yet. Though maybe I should have, considering that you failed your initial purpose, oh useless apprentice of mine~" Mukuro sighed dramatically before hopping off the tree.

The plant disappeared along with the rest of the surroundings as soon as Mukuro's feet deftly touched the ground, and Fran was forced to stand on his toes, too, as he watched his Master conclude their session over by walking, his back facing Fran, towards the setting sun (Fran had to hold back a sigh—his Master, really, so _theatrical_).

He was about to let his Master leave and just rest a dreamless sleep afterwards, but a thought occurred to Fran. "Oh, I forgot to ask. Master?" he half-shouted after the slowly disappearing figure.

"Hm?" Mukuro intoned without turning around.

"Does this mean you think I'm cute?"


	4. 4 BV

xXx

Four Years Before Varia

xXx

When a note came to him in a dream telling him to kill all the members of a renowned Mafia Family, Fran had been under Mukuro's tutelage for five years.

It was Fran's first ever assassination mission from Mukuro. He thought it meant his Master trusted him enough now and he marked the long-awaited day with a bright red circle (plus exclamation points and a star sticker) on his limited edition The Phantom calendar.

He had always wondered why Mukuro never gave him anything more to do aside from torturing other Families with his tricks. When he asked his Master on the lateness of the trial, he received another stab through his shoulder and the sweet-toned reply that told of him being too weak and in danger of being sent to the Vendicare (which would consequently make him even more useless) had it been any earlier.

Well, the date didn't matter. What was important now was that Fran had already planned the whole kill in his head, and all he had to make sure was that he timed his illusions (inspired by one or two famous apocalypse movies) perfectly with his poses, and that his Villain laugh would be loud and chilling and ready when all was done.

He didn't even have to check the name on the note twice, because not only was the Family a famous name within their world, it was also the last name of those who often visited their house for parties, holidays and special family-only gatherings.

Fran, unfortunately, knew them quite well.

xXx

"Kufufu. You made their death quick and easy," Mukuro said when Fran handed in his mission report. "How cute, _Little Fran. _Oh! Tell me, did dear ol' Carmela call you that when you appeared right at their doorstep? Did she give you a little kiss on the cheek right before the ground swallowed her and the rest of her family whole?"

He sauntered over to Fran, hand darting out and tightly gripping his apprentice's lower jaw. "Will you be having nightmares after this, then, Little Fran? Dreams of their welcoming, pretty faces, unwittingly inviting you to their living room when in fact you would no sooner send them to Hell? Were you afraid of hearing their screams?" Two cold hands slid over Fran's face, covering unmarked cheeks, tips of Mukuro's cold fingertips pressing at Fran's ears. "Is that why you made it easy? _Too _easy? Is that why you _hesitated_, Little Fran? Because of the nightmares that will come?" Mukuro's fingers dug deep on pale white skin.

"With you in it, all my dreams are nightmares, Master," Fran cheekily told him through squished cheeks.

Mukuro released the younger boy with a deep laugh that resonated throughout Fran's dream-illusion. "Useless, useless boy," he cooed with a sickeningly sweet voice that made Fran shiver. "I'll be going out soon~"

"You're escaping from the mental asylum?" Fran asked, but when Mukuro did not respond with anything other than his Not Amused Smile, Fran understood that his jibes won't help him today. "Is that why you asked me to kill the Vivado's? It was a trial, then?"

Mukuro tilted his head. "And the verdict?"

"Guilty." Fran tried hard not to look away, dull green eyes fixed on seething blue-red ones.

"Guilty," Fran repeated as he gripped the hem of his shirt—a nervous habit he thought he had abandoned when his Father ceased giving him punishments every time his performance was not up to par, a nervous habit he thought he outgrew when he learned not to fear, when he learned how to finally, finally put his intelligence to a more appreciable use, when he _learned_ from Mukuro—did he learn anything from Mukuro? He learned how to see through illusions, through lies, at least, but if only Fran could convince himself that the dissatisfaction he was seeing right now wasn't the case, that it was an illusion, a lie. "I failed you."

"How clever of you to deduce that." Mukuro applauded before slowly drifting farther and farther into the shadows. The dissatisfaction, the disappointment could not be any more real. Fran failed. Fran failed. Fran _failed_. And Mukuro was displeased by his failure. "Well now, I must bid you '_Sayonara_', Little One. Do hope that we don't meet each other again."

_Or it will be your last,_ Fran's mind helpfully added to make it sound as dramatic as his Master would have made it if he was in one of his better moods. Fran almost missed the theatrical-ness of his Master, because that meant that Mukuro was in a good mood, that Mukuro was pleased—that Mukuro was pleased with _him._

For a split second, Fran tried calling out, to ask pineapple boy '_What happens now? What happens after?' _but his voice told him to shut up. Mukuro was also already being enveloped by the dark shadows, disappearing from Fran's dream for what could be the last time. Fran did not pout when he thought of this. He did not throw a tantrum, did not cry, did not feel pain, and he did not anymore feel the tingling sensation in the back of his palm.

The following night and the night after that, true to his Master's (was it former Master's now?) words, Fran didn't see Mukuro in his dreams anymore.

He still had nightmares.


	5. 2 BV

xXx

Two to Zero Years Before Varia

xXx

He graduated from university a few months after he turned fourteen, notorious around the whole country for doing so, as well as for receiving a multitude of notable academic awards and recognitions. However, neither he nor his parents could care less about his achievements.

After the Vivados' death, the cause of which was still a mystery to the rest of the Mafia, his Father was promoted to be the new head of their Family, and his Father wanted it to stay that way. What his Father—now the Boss—cared more for now was how efficiently Fran did what was asked of him, how Fran was able to effectively serve the Family.

At first, he did menial tasks; managing papers, sometimes working behind the scenes with transactions where they tried using his high intellect. But then his 'special skill' was found out.

In between drives from one meeting to another, they were attacked by foot soldiers from an enemy Family whose number made up their lack of skill. Fran didn't need to do what he did, to use his illusions to create gray blob monsters that swallowed that enemies' weapons and the soldiers themselves, didn't need to make it obvious the _he_ was the one doing the protecting instead of the useless bodyguards, didn't need to look at his Father the whole time, waiting for acknowledgement—a surprised gasp, a twitch on the hand that held his cane, anything—as he finished the insects off cleanly without so much as a scratch on any of them.

His Father didn't think of him any better even after his display, but Fran did become their top hitman (and at fourteen, he was their youngest, too), killing those his Father needed dead, collecting information the Family required to do whatever it is they did. He was promoted from useless son, to useless minion, to a less useless hitman.

He should be happy, should be proud of his current status.

He should. He doesn't. He _loathed_ the beatified 'promotion'.

He hated his current job more than the old one, hated dealing with the stiff, typical Mafia men, hated the feeling of being constricted by their rules, hated having to cooperate with the Mafia on a daily basis, hated the feeling of still being _useless_ and unappreciated even with all he was doing.

But after finishing school and his illusion lessons, he had no clue what to do with his life now. It was irritating to face a mid-life crisis when you were just fourteen so he went along with his Father's whims, not really intimidated by the damned cane anymore but rather, for lack of having anything better to do.

On the bright side, officially living as an assassin helped stop the hesitation he had before he spilled the blood of people, young and old, familiar or foreign.

Would Mukuro have been proud of him? He would chuckle at Fran's concern over the fact, that he was sure, but he doubted pineapple boy would ever utter such a statement.

And then, as he watched the way blood slowly covered the streets below, Fran wondered how Mukuro would react now, at this particular moment four years, six months, and thirteen days after Mukuro abandoned him.

Would Mukuro approve of Fran, now that he didn't even feel a dull sensation when he killed his own family; his Father, Mother and siblings, this particularly bright day while they were out on a car ride? Would he have smiled when bullets rained down the convoy of sleek, black vehicles in the blink of an eye, the bullet-proof glasses and reinforced steel frame useless against Fran's special illusion-yet-not-an-illusion bullets?

Their mode of death was reminiscent of the epic end of one book he read, and Fran for one was silently satisfied by the results, especially when the back of his jacket flapped spectacularly behind him as he watched the carnage from above a building.

He hoped Mukuro would, too.

"Will you be having nightmares after this, Little Fran~?"

Hearing the voice he used to only hear in his dreams almost startled him, and it was only from years of practiced apathy and nonchalance did Fran avoid the shameful act. Instead, Fran straightened from his after-kill pose and faced pineapple boy with a straight face.

_I won't_, he wanted to say, because the nightmares disappeared with his hesitation a few months after he began assassinating (and he was _sixteen_ now, already legal to purchase and drink alcohol). But what he told Mukuro was "Maybe I will if you were in them, Pineapple Boy."

It was the first time he ever used the nickname out loud, Fran mused. In return for his term of endearment, Fran received a single stab right through his left shoulder from Mukuro's trident.

He stared at the weapon. "Ouch," Fran said, the corner of his lips twitching from suppressing a smile.

Mukuro pulled the trident out, the ends without any trace of blood. "Kufufu."

They stared at each other for a few good seconds. Fran couldn't decide whether to ask Mukuro if his presence now meant that Fran was _finally_ good enough by pineapple boy's standards, or if that meant that it would be Fran's end today, or if he should ask '_why just now?', _or if he should inquire where Mukuro got the cool trident from 'cause Fran wanted to have a weapon now, too.

"I heard news about you," he announced instead. He'll ask about the trident later.

"So you're stalking me now, hm?" Mukuro looked amused. "I'm sorry, Fran, but you're not my type."

"I figured that long ago. It was hard to maintain 'anorexic and apathetic' just so you'd lay your creepy palms off the cute me." Fran stopped the mini-staring match he had with mismatched blue-red orbs and focused on the yellow police tapes that were now being put up around his families' crime scene. In his peripherals, he saw Mukuro do the same. "I didn't think that you'd like little, skittish Mafia bosses, though—that's quite a fetish. Is he the reason you're working for the Vongola?"

Mukuro's affiliation with Italy's strongest Family wasn't the only thing Fran learned in his four-year service as his own Family's hitman. There was the rumor about the Estraneos, the possession bullet they created, the testing they did on their own children, and then their suspicious death. Fran had an idea of that even from before, so new news for him was Mukuro's slaughter of his new Family by possessing another member and being sent to the Mafia's most feared prison after that.

He found out, too, that the day after Fran's apprentice trial had coincided with Mukuro's escape with fellow inmates. When he learned that particular piece of information, Mukuro's "I'm going out soon~" sounded less stupid (and confirmed that he, indeed, _was_ escaping from a mental asylum, but of a different sort).

It made Fran sort of disappointed when he realized he had been left out of all the fun just because he hesitated for one tiny second. Stupid Mrs. Vivado; she made him miss Mukuro's visit to Japan, the tracking down of Vongola's tenth successor, the fight with Vongola's tenth successor—the _trip to_ _Japan_, and _missing the chance to buy authentic Japanese comic books._

Fran's only consolation was the knowledge of his Master losing his battle (and being _cleansed—_just the sound of it was already lame to Fran) and being sent back to the Vendicare. His second attempt of breaking-out failed as well. And Fran could guess illusions were at work when he "reappeared" later as Sawada Tsunayoshi's mist guardian, which had to take a lot of power Mukuro should have limited use of, being stuck in a prison cell.

Even so, Mukuro's experiences still sounded more thrilling than the ones he had while working for his Father. He was stuck in a rut in his mid-teenage years while here was Mukuro with longer, glossier pineapple hair (why not get a new haircut, Fran wondered), clearer blue-red eyes, a creepier smile, and a cool weapon.

Hm, his Master had changed, hadn't he? It must've been the 'cleansing'.

"Oh, but it is my dear Chrome who is their Mist. I am simply there to possess Tsunayoshi once the time is right."

"Like I said, that's quite a fetish."

Mukuro sighed in an overly dramatic manner. Maybe the cleansing wasn't done too well. "And here I was, curious as to how my useless apprentice had been these past years. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered my cute Chrome with the flight to Italy."

"Maybe," Fran said with less force and more bitterness than he intended. "And I'm fine, thank you for asking. Though I'm officially an orphan now."

"The Varia should be desperate enough to adopt you, I believe," Mukuro said, and Fran can imagine little gears working inside Mukuro's mind, being operated by little smiling gremlin pineapple heads. "Seeing as they will be in need of a new Mist soon."

Fran considered the offer for a couple of seconds, and recalled he had nothing better to do now after killing his own Family (like hell he'd take over, let them rot on their own). He would still be working for the Mafia if he joined the Varia, but he heard a lot of things about them, the jobs they did—which were slightly more interesting than his own service as an assassin, and his first encounter with the group did leave a good impression…

Plus, he'd seen a photo of their uniforms—villains looked good in leather, didn't they?

"I'll send them my resume, then, Master."

The title slipped past his lips a tad on purpose, a tad through habit. Mukuro chuckled when he caught it.

"Don't disappoint me again, Little One."

_I won't,_ he almost said, but that would sound like Fran was trying to please Mukuro. His Master didn't need to know that he, in fact, was. "Maybe I will," he thought was a better, sassier reply.

Mukuro did not say anything, settling with a smirk as he walked away from Fran, disappearing into the sunset, into a cloud of mists.

Thinking it was safe, Fran let himself release the previously suppressed smile.

"Oh, and Fran?" Mukuro called out to him, body slowly changing to a more feminine form.

Fran wiped the smile, tiny as it was, away. "Hm?" he intoned, jacket resuming its spectacular billowing.

"Sweet dreams, Fran-sama," the pineapple girl told him before she was completely enveloped by the mists.


	6. 0 BV

xXx

Less Than One Day Before Varia

xXx

As it turned out, Fran didn't have to send his resume to the Varia.

"VOIIIII! Fucking brat, did you do this?"

The creepier smile Mukuro had used on him should've tipped Fran off, really. His Master didn't even give him time to breathe, because as soon as he left, a Varia member—a _high_-_profile _Varia member—was already pointing a sword at his neck. So much for creating a good first impression for his job interview.

"I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am," Fran told the man with silver hair that was even longer than his Master's (well, at least _his_ style was fairly normal, Fran had to give him that). "I was just enjoying the wind here." As if to make a point, Fran let the wind continue on carrying his jacket, letting it flap all around him. He made the wind carry the man's hair around, too.

"FUCK! SHIT!" The man (Fran tried to recall his name, remembering it had something to do with a deadly sin, an animal) screamed curses, fussing over his hair for two seconds before his blade nicked Fran's neck deeper. "DAMN IT. I don't have the time to deal with another shitty illusionist so if I were you, bastard, I'd explain myself," he half hissed, half shouted, which Fran didn't think was possible, but he pulled it off, somehow.

"Explain what, ma'am?" Fran tilted his head.

He squinted at Fran, expression looking positively dangerous. His frown turned to a wide grin, shark-like teeth exposing themselves. Fran, unable to immediately recall the other's name, decided that he'll just call him shark man, for now.

"Heeeeyyy—you're our target's son."

_Ah,_ Fran thought, syllable full of realization. That was why shark man was here, why he was furious. Fran beat him to his kill.

Oops.

"I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am," Fran told him again, blank face still feigning ignorance.

"Well, _fucking girlie,_ I should just kill you, too, then." Shark man drew out blood from Fran, grin disappearing when he realized (all too quickly—and Fran mentally frowned, too) it was fake. "Tch. Shitty illusionists."

"Ma'am, I want to join the Varia," Fran said, voice serious—not that shark man would be able to distinguish his change in tone, but it would make a better impression if he did—as he cut to the chase.

Shark man raised an eyebrow and promptly gave a loud laugh. "VOOOIIII! _YOU_? JOIN THE _VARIA_?" He looked so amused at Fran's announcement that he drew back his sword. "What, you were that fucking desperate to join that you knocked off your own family? You think it's _that easy_ to enter our ranks? VOI! Ever heard of _Varia quality_?"

Fran did not look sheepish, did not look discouraged, did not look pleading. He blinked green eyes, waiting for the 'yes' that will come eventually—because that was his mission now, to get the affirmative to join and then take over as their Mist Guardian. It was his time to redeem himself. He won't fail. He won't fail. He won't fail his Master.

"Heh, let me tell you, you're just a useless asshole unfit for the Varia." He leered at Fran, amusement clear in his eyes. "After we're through with you, kid, you'd wish I just killed you right here, right now." He turned around, long, silver hair fluttering along with his movement. "You're doing the report for this mission, trash!"

Fran was aware of how easy his recruitment had been, and he was even more aware of how it implied that it would be harder to get out of whatever it is his Master had gotten him into this time. Harder than how he got out of parties, much harder than how he got out of his Parents' tight hold.

"Yes, sir—"and Fran finally recalled shark man's name, his title, his position—"Commander Superbi Squalo, sir."

And he found he was still looking forward to his job this time, Mafia or not.

"Oh, and Commander, can I ask when I'll get a coat like yours?"

xXx

Omake (Beginning at Varia)

xXx

The leather jacket, Fran decided, was the cheese to the Varia's mousetrap.

Sometimes, it would make him wonder if it was worth it, swiping the bait and thinking that it was fine to get caught since he never felt any pain and hesitation; thinking it was fine since he had nothing to lose.

He was prepared for whatever the Varia dished out to him, too.

The strict training and his fellow subordinates were tolerable to an extent. The daily trashings, the explosions, the continuous fight for survival—all of those were tolerable, were familiar. Everyone had unusual ticks, unusual habits, and Fran did, too, and it was almost comforting being surrounded by equally deviant people.

And he expected facing such things, but what Fran didn't expect was _this._

Dealing with the top Varia members (otherwise known as the members who had the most screen time) made this whole mission impossibly crazy. And amazingly, these six individuals had a way of taking your sanity even when you already had none of it to begin with—and Fran was quite sure, what with him being born into the mafia, him being Mukuro's student, him being an illusionist, him being a hitman, him killing his family, him being _Mukuro's student_, and him _asking_ to _join_ the Varia (a fact he would never admit to, and he will always, always tell anyone who asked the he was simply abducted, and they'd believe him wholeheartedly), that sanity didn't even exist in his dreams.

The incident that started many more a time when Fran felt that his Master really was still angry with him was after his recruitment and they had to decide which group he'd fall under. Getting lumped together with the rest of the members who'd had Mist attributes was the obvious choice, and he did end up with them eventually, but not for the understandable reasons anyone would have guessed.

The deciding factor, it turned out, was Fran's hair and eye color.

Fran dutifully stood in attendance near the door as the core members debated with each other around the long mahogany table, sitting in scattered places (though one was standing behind the person Fran guessed was the Boss).

The spiky-haired giant with the ugly mustache, the only one standing, argued that green was the Thunder's color. Green with green.

_Well, if they were talking about matching_, the fag with the Mohawk interrupted_, then the 'cute newbie' should be kept under his wings_. His Mohawk was green, Fran's hair was green—an inarguable match. (Fran waited for him to say that green was the color of homos, but no such addition was made)

The lady commander Shark wasn't interested because Fran apparently didn't wield a phallic weapon. Fran was very disappointed. Right.

And then the blond with the tiara started throwing knives around, laughing how the royal prince will have this new pin cushion as his peasant because green was the color of royal blood. Everyone raised an eyebrow at him at this point, but after a moment of silence, the difficult decision of organizing recruits was continued.

The hooded baby spoke, tiny voice cutting through all the shouting. Green, he said, was the color of money, of snot, _and_ of frogs/amphibians.

The room was silent for the second time. The blond snickered and repeated that yes, green _was_ the color of froggies, did the baby learn that in his kindergarten class? That comment coming from someone who said green was the color of blood earned a half-snort from Fran, and consequently, he earned a multitude of knives from the 'prince'.

But since the baby had three things over everyone else, his argument was therefore very significant, and coupled by the fact that their Boss was getting impatient and had begun throwing glasses and wine bottles at them, Fran was now instigated under the Mist guardian's care.

Well, Fran thought as he adjusted his leather collar and admired how sleek it felt on his fingers, the jacket really _was_ Varia quality.


End file.
